


desperate basketballwives

by JeanSouth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanSouth/pseuds/JeanSouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aomine regrets the suburbs as a whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> established akamidotaka. pies. kise. pies.

“I can’t believe it,” Is the first thing Midorima says when he gets back from Aomine’s house at four in the afternoon on a tuesday. As usual, he looks perfect: his green hair is perfectly trimmed and styled, his clothing is practically flawless, and his hands, currently wrapped around the edges of a pie-dish, are ruthlessly kept perfect. “I did everything humanly possible to perfect my apple pie.” 

In the livingroom, Takao shoots Akashi a worried look. It’s unseen by Midorima, and their protests are unheard when he lets the door swing closed and takes off to the kitchen. The sound of cupboard doors opening and closing rapidly draws their attention from Akashi’s efforts to teach Takao how to properly play shogi.

“Shintarou?” Akashi tries, taking the path through the doorway without showing hesitation. Bags of baking implements pile on the kitchen counter, quickly joined by butter from the fridge, apples from the baskets hanging near the windows, and knives to chop them up. “Is something, perhaps, wrong?” 

Behind him, out of sight from Midorima, Takao makes a face that states how obvious he thinks it is. In turn, Akashi thinks but doesn’t show that they both have seperate ways of approaching Midorima in a snit.

“Yes!” Midorima snipes in reply, sliding an apron over his head. It’s leaf-green, and matches him well. The anger blatant in him simmers down slightly — though not entirely — and Akashi hides his sigh of relief by stepping closer and leaning on the counter. Midorima hides things (disappointment, guilt, sadness, even sometimes positive things) behind anger or stoicism, but the fact he replies at all sends them a long way. “I brought over my apple pie, and immediately, Kise shows up with his.”

The knife in his hands is expertly wielded, and part of the reason Akashi treads lightly, and engages in a moment of silent communication when Takao slides around the other side of the island in the middle of the kitchen in mirror opposites with Akashi.

“But your apple pie is amazing,” Takao tries, keeping his fingers firmly off the worktop where normally he’d lean on it. “As soon as they tried yours, he’d have been blown out of the water.” 

In the aftermath of his words, there’s a bare second of silence and stillness, before Midorima resumes chopping with increased vigor.

“That,” He says, gathering up apple cores in his hands before opening the bin to throw them away, “Is the issue. It didn’t.” 

With his back turned to them, it gives Takao the chance to share a horrified look with Akashi. They may be smart men, but the ice they are treading is thinner than ever before.

“Perhaps you could ask for the recipe,” Akashi suggests instead, the voice of logic in the middle of the fray as he turns on the oven as directed. “You could improve on it even more.” 

“I can’t ask for it,” The chopped apples find their way to a bowl filled with water, to wait there for further use. “Everyone would know I think his pie is better.”

Silence reigns while Midorima puts together a base for the pie, and gathers spices to try a stuffing.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Takao asks, eventual and casual, ignoring the warning look that Akashi gives him. 

“Yes,” Midorima says, thoughtful, slow - like he’s making a bad decision he’s going to regret later. A moment after, his jaw sents firmly and he turns to the door to the garden. “Get me that recipe.”

Behind him, Akashi’s look says I told you not to offer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kagakuro pre-relationship

“Please,” Kagami says — exasperated but with the patience of an angel — while he beckons over a waiter to help him get a dustpan for the shattered glass on the floor. “Stop spooking me.”

From Kuroko’s point of view, he’s fascinating. Kagami is tall, with a handsome face and hair as bright as his spirit. He’s enthusiastic about everything and an awkward kind of polite, full of forgetfulness with manners, and belated additions to his sentences.

He’s also, Kuroko knows very well, several years too young for him.

“I’m very sorry,” He says smoothly, and offers a fresh drink to Kagami. Strictly speaking he shouldn’t be drinking, but the night is young and pressed right up against the weekend; he deserves a little drink after all he does for the sports team the fundraiser is for. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

With this now free hand, he adjusts Kagami’s bowtie. It’s almost endearing how awkward it is when slightly crooked, hastily tied to speed the process of forgetting how awkward wearing one feels. Kuroko smiles, just barely, and turns his back to the wall to stand next to Kagami instead of in front of him.

“Your match was very impressive,” He continues, and means it genuine. During high school he himself played plenty of the sport, if lacking all the talent Kagami ruthlessly uses and displays. At Kuroko’s words, he colours slightly and hides it with a sip of his drink. The confidence on the court translates well to regular life, but he supposes this is hardly regular “I made sure I saw it after our last conversation, and I’m happy I did,”

“Thank you,” Kagami mumbles in return, full of awkward teenaged fidgets while he purposely doesn’t look at the hand Kuroko’s laid on his forearm, and purposely doesn’t mention how his breathing noticably speeds up. A few moments later he extracts himself, and glances back only when he thinks he can do so without being caught.

Throughout the night, he continues to do so, and alleviates most of Kuroko’s guilt. He intends to have Kagami.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how aomine got a cat  
> (alternatively: how aomine never got a date again)  
> mentions of aomine/the world

A resounding crash echoed from Aomine’s hallway. It sounded suspiciously like the china vase Midorima had given him as a housewarming gift.

“I hate you so much,” He said plainly as he exited the kitchen to look at the carnage of shattered peices, and the hellspawn that caused it sitting there washing its paw with a feigned air of innocence. “I’m going to turn you into a new pillow.”

“Meow,” Came back to him just as plainly, almost mockingly before it brushed past his ankles to go and sit on one of his kitchen barstools until he gave in and fed it.

Once, it had been called Chopsticks. This, of course, was before Kise had moved into the neighbourhood and the seventeenth level demon familiar summoned straight from the bowels of hell had taken to invading his house when he wanted nothing more than for it stay away from him forever. As such, it had become Satan instead. 

With a sigh he turned back to the kitchen and swept the cat up under one arm. He let it dangle there until he get out of the door, across the street, and to Kise’s front door.

“Here,” He said as soon as the door was opened, thrust the cat forward into Kise’s waiting arms then turned on his heel and made his way back to his own house. He had a window to secure.

As it stood, securing windows was still never enough. He managed to get to the evening before a slight bonk sounded from his bedroom window, and became progressively louder the longer he ignored it. He swore the idiot animal was trying to give itself a concussion, and though he was not a sympathetic man, he didn’t want the death of a cat too stupid to live on his conscience.

“I hope you walk into an oven instead of your litter tray,” He stated as he opened the window to let the cat push its way inside, then closed it after to keep the draft out. The moment he sat back down again the sound of tiny paws (or, he considered sometimes, hooves, as the cat sounded like a tiny herd of horses running across his hardwood floor) stopped for a second before he felt the bed jolt slightly with the weight of it jumping next to him.

Then, as though just to spite him, it brushed its tail up his arm, along his face, and flopped down on top of his hands (and subsequently the laptop keyboard). When he threw it out of the bedroom, it spent at least twenty minutes howling and stratching before he let it back in with a strict warning that if it did again, he was going to make catcakes.

Not that warnings had ever helped; the beast seemed to delight in making him miserable.

There had been the very first time, when he’d brought home the surly principal of the local highschool, and gone through the effort of shutting him up and charming his pants of to give Aomine a nice hard pounding. Midway through, (or perhaps further, but Aomine never had a second chance to find out what Miyaji’s lifespan for a fuck was) it decided to jump on his back, and dig its claws in for a good hold.

In a long run of unfortunate events, very few stood out anymore. There was always the time when he’d had a pretty young thing with whispy hair and big eyes up against the wall, and the fuzzy little hellball puked at their feet, and the time it decided to sleep on his chest when he was enjoying being ridden.

As if noticing his deepening frown at the thought of his ruined endeavours, Satan rolled over to show his tummy; dark browns with darker spots on long, long fur that would have required frequent brushing if it hadn’t been the type of cat that proved its rebellion by sneaking into showers.

“I hope you choke on the next possum you catch,” He muttered darkly, but reached out to sink his hands into the warm, soft fur anyway. A moment later he rolled over and buried his nose in it, greeted by the feeling of tiny claws digging into his scalp as if it wanted to keep him there and suffocate him. If he put up with all this misery, he deserved to have a nuzzle.

Eventually it let go of him, and kicked him in the jaw to dislodge him from where he’d started to doze off. When it moved it revealed his phone on vibrate, and a number on the screen he hadn’t seen in a while. Reaching out to answer it, he stopped a split second before pressing the answer button.

“Let’s call a truce,” He suggested, and consider for a moment elevating himself above bribery before he remembered who he was. “I’ll buy you lamb.”

The look he got was slightly considering, and Satan hopped off the bed to curl up on a chair near the wardrobe instead. Good enough.


End file.
